


Ashes at my Feet

by illegalmuppetfighting



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Alternate Universe, BAMF John, Elemental Magic, Kinda, M/M, Magic, Sylphs, at least, caste system, unexpected combustion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegalmuppetfighting/pseuds/illegalmuppetfighting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has no sylph blood pumping through his veins. He's had to work every minute of his life to assure others that that doesn't mean he doesn't count.</p><p>Sherlock is one of many. More or less. Give it to the bastard for still managing to be rare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Beating of Your Heart

_Sylph: (noun.)Slang for human with Fairie ancestry (see Fairie). He/she may possess physical/mental traits of the Fairie species (i.e.: oddly colored eyes, increased height, control of respective elements, anatomical abnormalities)._

 

 

  John knew he didn't have a drop of fairie blood in his veins. Everyone did the tests when they first enrolled in school- your bloodline was your honor, your priveledge, your ticket to the big time or the slums- and John's had been completely, devestatingly human. That made it a bit hard to get a job, especially in the medical field, where sylphs, especially Selkies, were so valued for their talents in stemming blood flow and channeling liquids with energy for healing purposes. Finding a position in the military had been easiest, where most of the men and woman on the front line were for the most part completely human. Nobody wanted fairie blood spilled, after all. Most of the power was kept safely behind the lines, a battle of wills and intellect rather than tact and flying bullets. Gorgeous, tall, angelic beings in tight-fitting suits that spoke with smooth and persuasive voices, issuing out commands as their unnatural eyes flicked over the soldiers about to give their lives for Queen and Country. And give their lives they did. Or perhaps an arm, or a leg. You signed away your peace of mind when you entered the army. You signed away your good night's rest, your trust, your being. Everyone knew it. But they gazed right back into the impossible eyes and listened anyways.

 

If your bloodline was your honor and priveledge, these people knew it would never get much better than this for them.

 

  The room was uncomfortably quiet, a silence broken only by the rustling of papers and muffled coughs. Occasionally the sound of feet shuffling would fill the room as the line of people moved forward, a new person handing in a sheet of official-looking yellow paper covered in black print, detailing the person's age, name, annual income, and a plethora of other tiny details. People didn't meet each other's eyes, instead opting to look at the beige floor tiles or white, undecorated walls instead. No one wanted to be here. John leaned heavily on his cane as the line moved forward once again, his other hand rummaging in his pocket for his own paper.

 

  John let out a tight, guarded smile as he handed the yellow sheet to the middle-aged lady behind the glass. She gave a strained smile back, dropping the paper into a file folder and typing a few things into her computer. Her eyes were a dark red, fiery color, the shade of magma rising from the ground, but her face was soft and the color of earth beneath brown hair that was tied loosely in a ponytail. She was an Fey. Fey were the most human looking to begin with, softer than their cousins, in tune with the heartbeat of the earth, but judging by the lack of green highlights in her hair and her dead-end government position, whatever fairie blood she had was quite a few generations back. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she finished her typing, looking back up towards John and passing him a small white slip of paper that would have to be kept carefully. It was his only source of income as of the moment.

 

No pleasantries were exchanged between them. They were both perfectly fine with that.

 

"Thank you, Mr. Watson. Exit's to your left."

 

John had been in the low, concrete building exactly twelve times since he had been invalidated from the war. It was a house of resentment, bitterness, greed and all sorts of what his overtly religious grandmother had liked to call sin. But it was necessary. John rotated his stiff shoulder as he walked out into the dying light of day. He reminded himself for the twelfth time to ask the lady's name the next time he went in.

 

-_-_-_-_-

 

 

_"They keep telling me that I am the last of my kind. 'The only one with the ability to bend light to your will!' they keep exclaiming with perhaps a bit of jealousy, as if being the only one is a good thing, a special thing. Maybe it is for some people, but what is the use of a gift if you cannot pass it on? That, really, is my only regret in this life."_

_–Dr. Samuel Harden, 1987, in an interview for a public newspaper. He died two years later, leaving no heirs, and is considered the last of the light sylphs by many._

 

 

 

 The bedsit was tiny. Maybe that was a bit of an understatement. John hated it, but it was the best he could afford in London until he could find a job, and he was loathe to leave the city. The smell of Chinese food filled the flat, the carton untouched on the plain desk. The hint of danger that came promised with the gun tucked inside a drawer allured him, but it was a deadly thing. John adjusted his leg, trying to find a comfortable position as he stared at the computer screen. He probably should stop seeing his therapist. The blog idea was rubbish. He had nothing to write, no interesting thoughts or revolutionary ideas that anyone would want to see. He wasn't a writer. He wasn't even special. He was just John, plain, ordinary John, with no interesting traits to speak of, a quickly deteriorating relationsjip with his surviving family and a distinct lack of sleep at night.

 

 John sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, closing his computer with a _click_. He ignored his quickly cooling food; he would put it away later. Maybe he would eat it tomorrow. If he could be bothered to, of course. Food didn't interest him much anymore, hell, _nothing_ interested him anymore. The days blurred into one another, constant cycles of waking and sitting and nightmares, occasionally interrupted by a visit to his therapist or a meal. No excitement. Nothing. Even Harry's life was more exciting than his.

 

Harry. John worried about her. How could he not? Ever since the war, he had seen Harry a total of four times. Three of those times she was dead drunk and raving. The first…she had been content. Happy and smiling and clutching the hand of a pretty air sylph named Clara who was at least five years younger than her. He couldn't really remember Clara, only the feel of her, the thrum of energy that all those with any control over the elements gave off and the flash of silver-blue eyes typical to the Aiir. That one contented scene was all a bit of a blur, really, seeing as he had still been half-doped on medication as his shoulder healed. John wished he could remember it better. Maybe if he could, it would counteract all the sour memories that had occurred a few months later, after the wedding he had not attended, after Clara and Harry had started fighting and Harry turned to drink again.

 

John flinched inwardly. He didn't want to think about that. His hand clenched where it lay on the table. He forced it to relax. Outside, a police siren screamed past along with the muffled sound of rushing cars. Every sound seemed magnified, resounding in John's ears. He hated it, the dull quiet of the bedsit that made him feel as if he was going insane. Maybe he should go out tomorrow- as much as he disliked admitting it to his therapist, she was right about him needwd to get out.

 

 

 

}}}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{{{

 

 

 

Damnit. _Damnit._ The fog around John was thickening and he was quickly losing his bearings. He had gone to a pub for drinks earlier that night, an indulgence. If you knew where to go, you could assure that no one would ask questions and you could get a mostly non-sylph crowd. That's the way it was for John. He found he couldn't trust himself intoxicated around sylphs- the air around them seemed to buzz slightly (and sometimes, if they were more powerful, the energy felt like it was coming off in waves) and it was disconcerting at best, addictive and alluring, with a side affect of headaches, at worst. And being drunk definitely sent it into the 'worst' category.

 

The pub had been wonderfully sylph-free, and John had managed to get himself a few drinks before deciding to head home. Except now he had no idea where 'home' was. The streets were growing narrower and the small pockets of misty light that indicated a streetlamp were growing farther and farther apart. He hadn't seen a cab in ages. Dark shapes occasionally passed by him (sometimes accompanied by a low tingle in the air), people heading who knows where for who knows what. John knew better than to talk to them.

 

He leaned against a wall near a side alley for a moment, rubbing his sore leg, when a shuffling sound followed by a pained grunt caught his attention. Perring down the alley, he caught sight of a dark shape scrambling to his feet, appearing to have fell (jumped?) out a window of a neighboring building. The doctor side of John took over.

 

"Oy! You okay down there?"

 

The shadow sprang to its feet at the sound of his voice, and then promptly fell to its knees again in the filth of the ground(broken/sprained leg?). John fumbled about for a moment before rushing down the small alley.

 

John felt the familiar buzz in the air as he approached the figure, which he could now see was a woman dressed in a ratty dark blue hoodie and muddy jeans. She was heavily made up, poorly applied smudges of rouge on her cheeks and dark red lipstick that was smeared over the edge of her bottom lip. A puffy black eye could barely be seen past the charchol eyeshadow. She had a gash across one cheek, and her eyes were an almost glowing shade of orange against deathly pale skin and badly dyed black hair, which showed through red at the roots. A Damar, though she tried to hide how deeply the fairie blood ran, and she was very, very weakened. Why? What could do that?

 

"Miss? Do you need hel-"

 

She drew her mouth back into a snarl as he spoke, revealing canines that were a little too sharp for comfort. Leaping up from the ground, she John against the wall, a knife at his throat. John could see the swirl of yellow at the center of her irises, and the buzzing in the air around them grew uncomfortable. Not to mention the knife.

 

"Human _filth_." She spat at John, her breath smelling heavily of alcohol and the tip of the knife pressing uncomfortably, nearly painfully, against the skin of his throat. John could feel his pulse racing. A Damar with a grudge against non-fairie kind. Oh, this was bad. Fireborn were the most violent, untamed of the fairie-blooded.

 

" _Crippled_ human filth. Not fit to live. Trying to help. Oh, so kind. So noble. So dumb." She was grinning wickedly, palm pressed excruciatingly against John's shoulder as she used her other hand to yank his cane from his grasp and throwing it to the dank ground. Her wrist flicked up again to place the blade to trail along John's jugular vein. "They always are, aren't they? Oh, look at the little girl, so defenseless, so stupid! But I'm not really, dearie, I'm not so stupid as to let you get away alive." She cooed into his ear. John muffled a strangled gasp as the knife broke skin and her hands began to burn. The air became alight with the tang of elemental control. He swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing."Can't have you running to your higher power..."

 

Okay, so maybe it had been a really, really bad idea to go out tonight without his gun.

 

John was squirming, looking for perchace. If only she would be distracted for one moment, then he could just-

 

There. A thump close to them- someone had jumped out of the window like the woman had. Both John and the woman turned their heads toward the noise, but John flicked his head back just as quickly while her grip was slackened and twisted his arms free, disarming her and clipping her head with the inside of his palm. She stumbled to the concrete, dazed. John turned to face the figure- a man- unsure of whether he was friend or foe, and not willing to take the risk-

The world went grey as a veritable tsunami of power rushed over him.


	2. In the Heat Beneath Your Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has never been a damsel in disstress

 The world went from utter darkness to greyscale to blinding, magnificent color in the space of a heartbeat.

                                                   

 

The world fractured and reorganized and rehabilitated itself in the space of a breath.                                                                                                                              
All was chaos, and all was silence.

 

 

John was dying in the hot scrubland.

 

 

John was keeled over on the cold pavement.

 

 

John was pretty bloody terrified.

 

-_-_-_--)_)-)_-_----

 

 

 

 When the real world came back into focus, it was like a slap in the face. The bitter taste of ashes filled John’s mouth as he spluttered, sitting up and testing his wrenched shoulder as he reached for his discarded cane, only to find that it was right next to him, and a callused, firm hand was reaching down to help him up.

 

 

“Sorry about that, you alright?”

 

 

John stared mutely at the hand for a moment, and then looked up at the man. Light brown hair streaked with silver, a powerful stature and a dark suit filthy with ash and….blood? Dried blood, a few days old by the look of it, not fresh, but that didn’t do anything to slow his rising internal tension.

 

  But no buzz in the air. No sylph blood. This man was as human as he was, but by the looks of him, he could be a MI6 agent.  How could he afford clothing like that? In John’s experience, non-bloods rarely progressed far in any line of work, despite the new laws for equality, equal pay grade, the works, the majority still made up the base of checkout, construction, and low pay jobs that no self-respecting Selkie or Aiir would take.

 

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

 

 

  Hands grasped, a quick exchange, and John was on his feet and barely leaning on his cane. His eyes flicked down to the gun in the mysterious man’s hand, and everything fell shatteringly, gruesomely into place.

 

 

  “You killed her.”

 

 

  A smirk pulled at the corner of the man’s mouth. He disarmed his gun and put it into the inside pocket of his suit with a brutal, practiced efficiency, and then brushed a bit of ash from the lapels of his suit.  John’s breath might have started a bit more harshly; his pulse may have started thrumming at his throat. His hands, however, were unfailingly steady.

 

 

“She was a bit of a nuisance. And a wanted criminal, if that eases your conscience.”

 

 

  John turned slightly, expression hardening as he spotted the charcoal outline- still glowing slightly with heat- of where the Dagmar girl had just been crouched. A dozen terrible images came to mind (a thick set boy, new to the military, mouth open in a silent cry of surprise and horror and terror as the bullet pierced his chest, framebyframebyframe) as he viewed what had been the girl, now scattered in a blast radius and _oh god he had bits of her in his hair_ (and the bullet was wedged somewhere in his chest, but that wasn’t the worst bit, it was the hormone that the bullet had been coated in, and John could only dive for the ground as the boy’s eyes went pitch black and his sunburned skin began to become red in a way resembling a hot coal andheatandlightand _pain_ )-

 

 

  "Isn't that little natural self-destruct button so nice? The bullets, though, are terribly expensive..."

 

 

  John considered running. He considered fleeing from this man who was a blessing and a threat, who had saved his life and threathened to end it with every word out of his mouth. The look in his eyes was familier. It was the look of a man who loved power, got drunk on it, got off on it. Sad for him, then, that he would never be more than a footsoldier in what ever war he was fighting on another's behalf...John understood him in that respect. He understood the need to fight for your honor, for your lesser blood, for your daliy meal and co-workers respect- but this man had obviously gotten quite far with his butality. With his hate.

 

 

"What is your name?"

 

 

  He shot a wicked grin in John's direction, hiding the fact that he was shifting uncomfortably.

 

 

"Moran. And you, Doctor Watson, should watch your back"

 

 

John knew better than to stick around.

 

 


	3. I Can Hear the Rushing of the Ocean

 

 

 

 

 

    His skin itched with heat and his eyes burned with tears that he was _not going to let fucking fall_ as he fumbled with his jangling keys, unlocking the door to the gloomy bedsit. The doorknob finally gave beneath his hand and he stumbled into his makeshift home, barely getting the door shut and lock before sinking to his knees beside the desk, half supported by the wall.

 

 

  

   Breaths came raggedly, gasping and unsteadily, but at least he was still breathing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**in**

 

 

 

 

 

 

**out**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   At least he was still breathing.

   

 

 

 

 

 

**in**

 

 

 

 

 

**out**

 

 

 

 

 

   Unlike the nameless, violent Dagmar girl, impoded into oblivion by her own biological make up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**in**

 

 

 

 

 

**out**

 

 

 

 

 

 

   _Shit._

 

 

 

 

 

**in**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**out**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  John was in way, way over his head, wasn't he?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**in**

 

 

 

 

 

**out**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   Yes, yes he was.

 

 

 

 

 

**in**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**out**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  That man-Moran-had known his name. His fucking _name._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**in**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**out**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And a girl was _dean in an alley somewhere_ and he had _almost been murdered by a stick knife_ and a man had _jumped out of a building, saved him, and threatened to kill him_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**in**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**out**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All in the space of _five bloody minutes_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**in**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**out**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, at least he was still breathing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**in**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**out**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The problem was, he didn't know for how long.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. The Underscore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It really only seems to be getting worse

 

 

 

 

 

 

   John really, really hated the Underground.

 

 

 

   Public spaces, bars, the dorms back at uni, even the confined and congested quarters he sometimes had to inhabit in the army- those he could handle. And did, often (notwithstanding of existing appearances, he wasn’t a loner or a recluse, just a crippled recent veteran who was beginning to think the world had gone mad). But the tube-

 

 

  He pressed farther into the glacial plastic of the carriage’s wall, crossing his legs and drawing his cane closer in a despairing effort to occupy only half of the uncomfortable, cheerfully blue metal seat. John kept his gaze attentively on a piece of beige gum pressed into the floor, avoiding the glare the dark-haired Aiir woman sitting across from him was giving him over the bright glare of her cell phone. Her annoyance grated (quite literally, in the form of a steadily increasing buzz) at his mind, as if the mesh of limbs, outrageously red hair, and ‘grunge’ clothing claiming a single seat (plus half of his own) emitting sparks and a steady addling purr of arousal was _his_ fault.

 

 

   It wasn’t that he didn’t like sylphs, or even that he didn’t socialize or make friends with them. He had had a few rather good mates back at uni who were Selkie almost only in title, and the ones surrounding him now were in no way high-blooded.

 

 

 

   It was just-

 

 

 

   Agh.

 

 

 

   The background clamor.

 

 

 

  The Underground was, for the majority, used by Sylphs. And the power of them was always persisting in the air like the scent of a person’s house, adhering to the handrails like a residue of day-old syrup.

 

 

  It was really enough to drive John bonkers. Not that he wasn’t already, of course- here he was, on the Tube, heading to the Yard, to report a crime (‘a crime’ was all he could bring himself to call it, because what was it really? An assault? A murder? An attempted murder? Stalking? Threats?), because he couldn’t just call it in like a regular person. Because traipsing across London was so wise after what had happened to him last night.

 

 

   Because he felt more alive than he had in- oh god, months- and he honestly would abhor the sensation to end. And if limping across London and sitting down at a desk for a confusing interrogation would bring him any sort of closure, then he sure as hell would prefer it to a chaotic and overdue 999 call.

 

 

  The two Dagmar next to him- really, it was ten in the morning, who found this sort of thing on the Tube at ten in the morning?- shifted away by a millimeter, and John grabbed the chance to scramble up, grip unsteady on his crutch, and slip out the door of the carriage (when had it stopped? John couldn’t remember, but he thanked whatever higher power was listening that it had) and away from the arbitrating gaze of the other woman, swearing silently to himself that he was never, ever using this particular brand of public transport again.

 

 

   It was only when he finally got out of Underground, and up into the open air of London, nearly about to hurl and 8£ lighter than he was heading in, that he began to wonder if anyone could ever believe the tale he could scarcely comprehend himself.

 

 

 

 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

 

 

 

 

 

   The smartphone was new, top of the line, and maybe not exactly made available to the public quite yet. Sleek, black and caseless- and devoid of any recognizable brand marks. Subtlety and animosity were key, lock, and bolt cutter in the shifting worlds of London, and time and again being markless had allowed her to be the background paint that nobody noticed, remembered or looked at twice.

 

 

   She loved it, she really did.

 

 

   The small scrap of paper- stationary, thick and heavy and like cream against her meticulously painted fingernails- was easily fished out of her sleeve.  An exasperated sigh escaped her and she made a mental note to schedule handwriting classes, _again_.  He kept avoiding them, but his messy scrawl was becoming nigh unreadable, and it took her nearly two minutes to decipher and phone number and enter it in.

 

 

   She hesitated briefly before pressing the bright green CALL button. She understood the etiquette behind conducting a phone call as opposed to sending a text-and the safety precautions, as well. But it was an uneasy step, ducking out from behind the cover of an emotionless, easily manipulated text. And especially here-

 

 

  The air reeked, a disease that reached deeper than a cursory glance. In delved deep into the framework, the very essence of this place. It permeated the very atoms of the seat she perched on. She didn’t even want to open her mouth, much less let speech into the air.

 

 

  But somehow the phone had made its way to the side of her head, and the low thrum of the call connecting echoing in her ear. The other side picked up almost immediately, as usual.

 

 

 

 

  “Well?”

 

 

 

The handrail was a sickly yellow.

 

 

 

“He got off sir. St. James Station, on the District and Cir-“

 

 

 

The seats were too blue.

 

 

 

“I am aware of the specifics. Thank you for your help…Ms…”

 

 

 

“Athena, sir.”

 

 

 

“Thank you Athena. “

 

 

 

   A click and the dead silence of a call clipped short. Nothing particularly wrong then. She hoped he noticed the meaning behind her name today- it was a personal touch, her names, one she knew he appreciated.

 

 

   Or at least, she thought he did.

 

 

  The book of Latin roots for her birthday had certainly been quite helpful.

 

 

   Giving one last cursory glance to the couple across the carriage from her- now sitting on completely opposite ends of the seats, one shoving a pair of cumbersome boots in their bag in favor of a pair of slim flats, the other untangling a hair net and bobby pins, bright red wig lying dejected on the floor. A stiff nod, and she was out the opening doors (when had they stopped? She couldn’t remember, but she silently thanked whatever higher power was listening that they had).   

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: woooah. This was a doozy. Sorry if it seems rushed, I completed it over the weekend, writing like a maniac- I've been terribly preoccupied with finals! And family! But here it is. Promise we'll get some Sherlock next chapter!


End file.
